


Breathe In Breathe Out

by on_the_fringe



Category: Fringe
Genre: Blueverse, F/M, Size Kink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:13:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/on_the_fringe/pseuds/on_the_fringe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porn Without Plot, people. </p><p>(Not, I hasten to add, porn without people. That would be weird. Or robot sex, I guess.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Night

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 3x14 "6B".

That first night up in their bedroom, it's hard.

Her face goes through this complex, complicated routine of surprise, but she's Olivia; she ends up at _concentrated_ and grips his cock with even more determination, maybe even (growing) appreciation. Peter doesn't have to look down, marvel at how small her hand looks by comparison.

But of course he does it anyway. Glances up again, takes in the flush on her face, deepened.

Peter thinks about explanations, about words of comfort, and he knows he can deliver them both without breaking the sweat they've only just started on. But he just smiles and kisses her, kisses her mouth even more wide-open and lets his fingers stroke her: slide across skin, nipples and navel and beneath, across wiry curls and inside her cunt where she's wetter than her wide eyes suggest.

For someone so strong, she weighs very little when he pushes her upwards, _holds_ her above him for a moment, then settles on his back, her spread out above him, sitting astride his lap, and oh yes, she's biting her lip, frowning. Holding onto his cock not so much to protect it but to protect herself, he thinks. Prepare herself, at the very least, and that she has to do, not just mentally. He smiles what he knows is a winning smile, adds a little challenge.

Olivia cannot -- well, she can sometimes resist challenges because her impulse control's good. But Peter thinks she doesn't want to here -- wants to feel him inside her, which is only fair because he's wanted that too for so long: slide into her slow and deep and and deeper. Their eyes meet; Peter really wants more than that but he can't push, not yet, only pull by laying his hand over hers, feel the slight slippery wetness between her fingers where the head is peeking out, standing out.

He's about to open his mouth, finally coax her with his mouth in different ways, but there's that fierce vertical line on her forehead, and she slides upwards, her slickness spreading over his hands, her hands, and his cock. Deep breath, the one she takes even more than his, and she does take him inside: slides the tip between her folds, lowers herself down just a little. Peter is not surprised about her gasp after the first inch or so -- at the way her right hand grips his biceps tightly, her left hand restlessly trying for a hold on his pecs, pulling at chest hair he's never paid much mind to until now. He winces, and she does too; he slides his hands under the curve of her ass, lifting and ready to lower her the way she wants, the way she will want it.

A minute passes, and Olivia's staring down at where they're joined, where his cock seems almost too wide to take, which he knows it's not; even if it were Olivia has always been about making the impossible possible. Her breath is coming faster now, there's a glistening sheen on her upper lip, and her right thumb and index finger are digging into the muscles of his arm to the point of pain.

But it's so, so good: Olivia tight and slick and hot around him, gliding down a little more each minute, swallowing hard, and he does his best to soothe her and arouse her at the same time, thumb slipping into her folds, catching her -- their -- wetness and rubbing her right where she wants it, where it'll all begin and end, her body already trembling a little.

With a start, her weight settles onto him. Her eyes have fluttered shut, but her body is moving minutely upwards again, and Peter is glad, no, _overjoyed_ to help her: lift her up, a little, rock into her from below, into heat and wholeness, and she lets out a little cry that he hopes to hell is pleasure, holding still for just a moment, but she doesn't keep going, up and away but instead pushes down again, counter-point, perfect, and picking up speed with every thrust up and down and up and down; there's more wetness beneath his thumb now, slicking them both between their bodies, and he's starting to shiver too, his balls tightening, telling.

Olivia opens her eyes, pupils blown wide and dark, and when he flicks his thumb across her clit she whines, a low sound before her cunt starts contracting around his cock, and he pushes and pushes harder and follows her into blinding, _seeing_ sensation.


	2. The Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Add some mild domesticity kink to this one (hey, it totally is one).

She wakes early; she always does.

For a moment, Olivia's disoriented. Not because anything feels strange. It's more the absence thereof: no worries on her mind, for once. The world may be stormy, but she's inside, warm and perfectly safe. When she blinks and moves, a minuscule shift of limbs, she feels the twinge between her legs, and everything floods back: Peter. Last night.

Olivia smiles.

With great care, she slides out of bed, takes a moment to turn around and look at Peter. Asleep, he looks younger, softer. Like her, he's not wearing anything (because he was worn out, and she was too). She holds her breath and adjusts the blankets over him, a slip-slide of sheets that makes him breathe in more sharply but not rouse. It's actually hard not to smile. She stops fighting it.

Downstairs, Olivia rummages through the Bishop cupboards. It's so early Walter can't yet be back from New York. She will have to take care of breakfast, for once. She wants to, and isn't that the weirdest thing of all?

She's just put down on the counter bowl, flour, eggs, and milk when she hears the creak of the stairs. "Good morning," Peter says. His voice is a little scratchy but warm like the honey she's still holding.

"Peter," she says, and smiles at him over her shoulder.

He has long legs; it takes him only three strides to reach her. Peter nuzzles her shoulder, and she can feel the soft curve of his lips against the shell of her ear. "What are you making?"

" _Crèpes_. Rachel found the recipe when our mother had again forgotten to get more eggs and flour. I remembered Astrid had given Walter that set of jams; we could fill them --" she stops, because Peter's mouth has wandered, presses a kiss to the side of her neck just below her ear. He puts one hand lightly, questioning, on her hip, strokes the other down her arm. Olivia shivers, and the honey almost slips out of her fingers. She puts it down, blindly. "Um."

"Don't know if I'm hungry for food yet," he murmurs. He's warm and smells like himself, and if she'd thought yesterday's memories had returned, she was wrong, or not right enough: This right here is a much sharper, more visceral reminder. Without thinking, she pushes back into him, the bulk of his body. The arms around her tighten -- reach up and cup one breast, slide gently from her bellybutton down, down, down.

Olivia feels a rush of wetness, and the tips of her ears grow hot. She swallows. It's hard to keep her eyes open. "Not for food?"

"Nope." He pushes the collar of her bathrobe down with his chin, and the way his stubble rubs her naked skin makes her breathe in sharply and put both her hands on the counter to balance herself. Peter runs his teeth along the upper curve of her spine while soft fingers pinch a nipple through the fabric. Olivia suppresses a gasp. His other hand has reached the split in her bathrobe, just below the haphazard knot she made before walking downstairs. He's hot against her, hard against the small of her back. "Olivia?"

"Yeah," she says, and it's little more than a breath, but she's not really sure there's more more air in her lungs. She can feel her own heartbeat like a none too distant drum, and although the soft ache between her legs hasn't faded, she wants more: him. Here.

There are teeth at the edge her neck now, careful but insistent, and Olivia does squeeze her eyes shut for just a second. "Please."

Peter's fingers slip inside, between her folds, catching the wetness, spreading it and her open from the front. Behind her, he's lifting her bathrobe; the soft sound of cloth must mean he's divesting himself of whatever fabric separates them. Another shiver runs down her spine. She's done this before, but not standing up, and certainly not on an ordinary morning in the kitchen of an old Victorian house. Her nipples are rubbing against the bathrobe from the inside, uncomfortable, needing comfort; Olivia reaches up, drags her robe open at the top too to roll them between her own fingers, biting her lip.

"You're so gorgeous, 'livia," Peter says, hooking his neck over her shoulder. One thumb is lightly (too lightly) circling her clit. What comes out of her throat is a breath much rougher than intended. The fingers of his other hand probe her from below and behind where she's slippery and, she thinks, so eager; Olivia tightens her pussy around his fingers, once. His turn to choke out a breath now, and then he's there, his cock pushing into her, thick and wide so that for another moment she feels something like shock bubble up in her, her body stilling as if to decide, until he too stills, breathes against her, curling one hand around her own on her right breast and lacing her fingers with his. "Shh. It's okay. You can do this."

She wants to laugh because she can; she can do all manner of things, and taking Peter Bishop's cock is not the hardest of feats, no pun intended. His words, the sentiment help, though; she feels her body relax, accept him once more. With his free hand, he adds more pressure to her clit now, more direct, and with the friction and fullness from the inside it's good; it's good enough to make her moan, harshly. Move back against him, push their joined hands against her breast, her nipple. He gets with the picture immediately -- he's Peter, after all, shoves himself deeper inside her. He still feels like _almost too much,_ but only, and the three stimuli are like three wavelengths, low medium high yet shifting into harmony, and Olivia has to lock her legs to provide a counterpoint to his thrusts, faster and deeper until she can't, anymore, heat spiraling upward and downward from where he's fucking her, and then the waves are bursting and crashing over her, carrying her over the counter to tumble the squeeze-bottle of honey sideways and Peter yet harder into her for two, three thrusts until he too gasps and shudders into her for an endless moment.

It takes them both more than that to catch their breaths; he's actually _heavy_ draped all over her body, and when he's softening and slipping out, Olivia does wince a little at the sensation.

"You okay?" Peter, still breathless, but also concerned.

She turns, looks at him. He's flushed, eyelids drowsy, and there are beads of sweat on his upper lip. "Yeah." She leans in to kiss him on the mouth, for the first time this morning. "But I'm thinking, shower first."

"And then?" He licks into her mouth almost delicately, a sharp contrast to his motions just a minute ago.

"Then we eat those damn crèpes that I wanted to impress you with in the first place."

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Fringe Kinkmeme](http://fringe-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org), unsurprisingly.


End file.
